Of Promises and Vomit
by tutus portus
Summary: No plot; complete fluff. Brother moment.


**Of Promises and Vomit**

by tutus portus

_This work of fan fiction regarding the CBS television series "Numb3rs" contains the usual disclaimers and is not written for profit._

**.............................................................................**

Don ascended the stairs quietly, and paused to respectfully tap on his brother's bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. There was no answer, and after what he deemed to be an appropriate waiting period, Don gently pushed the door open, and edged his way inside. Although the curtains were drawn and the room was dimly shadowed, there was enough light leaking in from the hallway for Don to safely navigate the distance required to stand at Charlie's bedside.

He felt more like a visitor in this room than he ever had before, in his entire life. For one thing, it was positively... _neat_. There were no stacks of books on the floor, and no dirty clothing was in evidence anywhere. Also, the room smelled decidedly feminine, like Amita's signature fragrance of vanilla and musk. There was an underlying scent lingering beneath that, that Don found himself quite unwilling to think about. One of Amita's sweaters was draped over the back of the desk chair, and the top of the dresser now hosted several baubles Don was fairly certain did not belong to Charlie; things like a small ceramic desktop computer, what appeared to be a crystal cat, and a woman's watch, along with several bracelets. As Don passed the dresser and drew closer to the bed, he noted a small, thin paperback book on the corner of the desk: _Role Playing in the 'Primacy' Universe_. Yes, Amita had become a definite presence in this room, and Don had no doubt that she would be here now, tenderly caring for her lover -- if she was not already several hundred miles away, attending an astrophysics conference with Larry.

Her attendance at that conference was an unfortunate fact, however, as was Alan's golfing excursion to Pismo Beach; not to mention Charlie's proclivity towards falling ill at the least convenient times. Hence, Don stood now at his bedside.

Charlie lay motionless on his back, his eyes closed, fully clothed. His arms extended out from his body; his right hand clenched the edge of the bed in a death grip, and his left similarly grasped something lavender and silky that probably belonged to Amita -- Don refused to allow himself to imagine her wearing it. Even in the darkened room, Don could see that his brother's knuckles were white with the force he exerted, and he suspected that Charlie was not sleeping.

He was solicitous and quiet when he spoke. "Charlie. You awake, dude?" A few seconds passed before he received a grunt for an answer. A smile twitched at his lips. "Can I get you anything?"

Charlie's tongue slipped out of his mouth and licked his lips. "No, thank you," he whispered.

"Are you sure?" Don asked. "Maybe some water?"

Charlie groaned.

Don frowned and leaned over to lay the back of his hand on Charlie's forehead. He felt warm, but did not seem to have a raging fever. He straightened again. "So you want to tell me why I got a phone call from a cabbie?" he asked. "Who put you to bed, anyway?"

Charlie had yet to open his eyes, but even without them he managed to look both miserable and embarrassed. "I think the cab driver did. Don't really remember."

Don was surprised. The cabbie had told him only that he had just given Charlie a ride home from a medical clinic, and his brother had asked him to use his cell phone to call Don; he had no idea a complete stranger had been wandering through his childhood home and manhandling his sick little brother. The thought made him quite uncomfortable, but at least Charlie still had his clothes on (knowledge which came as somewhat of a relief).

Don started to sit on the edge of the bed. "Should I call Cal Sci? Do you have any more classes today?" he was asking, when Charlie suddenly bolted upright in the bed far enough to lean over the side and throw up on Don's shoes. The performance left him speechless as Charlie sank back onto the bed.

"Please don't sit there," Charlie pleaded.

Don stood, and looked with dismay at his shoes, and the floor around them. "No kidding," he agreed. "What brought that on?"

Charlie moaned again. "Inner ear infection. Bed rolling. Ship at sea."

Ah. It was becoming clear to Don -- in more ways than one, as vomit soaked through his socks. "I'll be right back," he said. He took off his shoes and socks, left the room to gather some supplies, and mumbled to himself the entire time he was de-puking first the floor, then his brother. "_I_ golf," he muttered as he scrubbed at the carpet. "_I_ could be at Pismo." He left to dispose of the evidence and came back with a warm, wet washcloth, which he used on Charlie. "_I've_ been known to look at the stars," he groused. "Did anybody invite _me_ to a damn astrophyscis conference? No, no, _I'm_ spending _my_ day standing in a puddle of Chuck's upchuck!"

He kept a trash can and towel handy while he forced Charlie to move enough to rinse out his mouth with water and change his t-shirt, but, thank the Good Lord, there was no repeat of the reprehensible behavior. "I'll go make you some toast," he sighed as he lowered Charlie back onto his pillow. "Should I call Cal Sci, or not?" He was nothing short of stunned to see a lone tear rolling down Charlie's face and into his ear. Immediately he sat on the edge of the bed again. oblivious to any personal danger. He reached up to brush at the hot tear trail with his thumb. "Ah, Buddy," he said sympathetically. "Are you feeling that bad?"

Charlie shuddered in a breath and turned his head away from Don. "I'm sorry," he croaked, in obvious distress. "I shouldn't have asked him to call you. You always get stuck cleaning up the messes, and it's not fair."

Don bypassed the first six levels of hell and sank directly to the seventh; that place reserved for human beings so low, they made their sick little brothers cry. He stroked at Charlie's curls as he pulled his hand back to his lap. "No, Charlie, _I'm_ sorry," he insisted. "I was just giving you a hard time, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it, Buddy. There's no place I'd rather be, nothing I'd rather be doing at this moment, than taking care of you and cleaning up your messes." He grimaced. "Not that I want you to throw up all over me, again."

Charlie sniffed and turned his head just slightly to look at Don through barely-open eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "You shouldn't have sat on the bed without warning me."

Don smiled and nodded. "I understand that, now. Before I risk standing up, I want you to promise me something."

Charlie's eyes drifted closed. "I'll try not to do it again."

"That's not it," Don said, "although I'll admit, I'm pleased to hear that."

Charlie almost laughed and slit his eyes open again. "What?"

Don regarded him seriously. "Promise me that whenever you need help, you'll call me. It's why I'm here, and it's the most important thing I do. I may give you a hard time, but I will always be your big brother. Okay?"

Charlie managed a small smile. "Okay," he said softly. "Thanks, Donny."

"Don't mention it," Don answered jovially, and pushed himself up off the bed.

The smile disappeared from Charlie's face, which turned slightly green.

Don barely got the trash can into position in time.

**The End**


End file.
